


United Colors of Rafael Barba

by memymo



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, I need something comforting, I need to be happy and I need my boys to be happy, M/M, Mentions of sex but no actual sex because I can't write sex, My boys being happy, Sappy, There is like zero angst, This is like really cheesy because I have too much sweets today and I'm sick so there, just two dorks in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8884528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memymo/pseuds/memymo
Summary: Nick thinks even if his memories have faded away, he wants to remember this moment – Rafael in his elements, shining brightly. Like a beacon calling him home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Eric - thank you for putting up with my newfound appreciation for Raúl Esparza.
> 
> This fic is inspired by the fact that a) I remembered how my mum used to have all her clothes tailored and she's ridiculously tiny. She'd go around the market to choose the fabrics and each individual buttons, it's crazy. B) My favourite vintage shop gave me a free dress the other day as Christmas present because ??????? They're just incredibly nice and generous. C) I'm in love with Barba's suits. Whoever is styling him is doing the good work and deserved all the praises. 
> 
> Also I didn't do much research because I'm lazy and sick so sorry in advanced about any inaccuracy!!

There’s a tailor shop in Little Italy that Barba has frequented ever since he was a wet ear, wide-eyed, naïve young intern at the DA office. The chipped wooden door is slightly crooked so you always have to lift the handle slightly and pull it towards you before opening. It feels like stepping back in time, surrounded by yellowed, half-peeled wallpaper that still bears marks of their lost magnificence, men in crisp, impeccable suits and hats who smiled charmingly without being sincere, their faces faded under the September’s sun, long dead. They reminded him of the men in those old movies Mami used to watch, secretly dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, their old, measured voices making promises of lasting love.

Guido’s father opened the shop after the war ended up, and like tradition, he took over. In the corner stood the old trusty Singer 66-16 which Guido’s father bought the day he opened the shop, its gold lettering and black surface still shines after 70-odd years. Guido is ridiculously proud of that thing, gently cooed to it like a familiar pet. When Barba first came here, Guido was well into his late 40s, all jovial and easy smiles, and has taken to calling Barba “kiddo” from then on, no matter how many times he protested the nicknames. He taught Barba all he knew about suits, like his father taught him, and his grandfather taught his father before – the colours, the cut, the seams and the tie. The first suit Barba ever owned was from Guido’s, tailor to perfection to accentuate his figures, the material light and smooth against his skin. No one knew that it was the portly, genial Italian tailor named Guido with a penchant for tiramisu who made ADA Rafael Barba into the man he was today.

But Guido is well into his late 60s now, and his can’t see as well anymore. His joints are stiffed and sometimes it’s hard for him to stand up; his back acting up more and more, a fact he loves complaining to Barba every time the ADA drops by for another suit. Neither of his children likes to take over the shop – Beatrice has recently got a promotion at her firm, while Antonio has begun working at a rather upscale private school. Guido is proud, Barba can tell, his voice coloured with fondness as he drapes panels over Barba’s shoulders and teasingly asked whether he should cut back on the coffee and food truck visits.

(Barba doesn’t know that when Guido sits in his plum armchair at home with his wife, his voice took on the same fondness as he told her about Barba. What a smart, polite boy, he always said. He wears my suits so well)

So Barba doesn’t know how much longer Guido will make his suits, but no one has ever dressed him better. A few times, he has wandered inside the glittering and slick department stores, but he feels false in the smartly cut suits like he’s wearing New York’s neon and chrome. But Guido’s suits makes him feels like himself, not a kid masquerading as one of _them_ , forgetting the bottom of the barrel he fought his way out of.

Guido’s suits feel like coming home to himself.

-

The first thing Nick Amaro remembers of ADA Rafael Barba is how his suits hug him like a second skin. The second thing is how he has never seen a man wearing pastel so well.

No one can accuse Amaro of not caring about his appearance, but he’s easy and simple – tie, slacks, and shirts. Occasionally, the shirts will be ironed, but Amaro learns long ago that after hours of sitting in the office and chasing suspects, they’ll be ruined anyway, so there’s no trying. He keeps his colours traditional: blue, light blue, navy, white, black, grey, and more blue with dashes of red. Amaro isn’t a man who’s overly concerned with his clothes; when they were together, Maria has bought all his clothes, which he still wears now. He usually picked up whatever looks like the things he owned in shops, or ordering them online to now have to go through all the hassle of shopping. But Amaro has eyes, and he can appreciate a sharply dressed man, especially when that man looks like he walked off the catwalk and straight into Amaro’s heart.

(It’s cheesy, and when he said that to Barba, he couldn’t stop laughing for half an hour, spilling all the red wine)

As they work together, cases after cases, Amaro learns how to read Barba by his clothes. The attorney always wears a slight smirk on his face, all bravado and confidence, taking down whoever deserves it while never showing a flicker of hesitation. But Amaro knows better. He learns to read Barba’s frustration in the blazing, blood red of his shirts or the stripes on his pocket squares. He sees the resignation in Barba’s bronze and brown ties or his dirt-coloured suits. He smiles at Barba’s confidence in his pastel blue and dusty pink, all swaying hips and sure strides as he took apart the defence, his eyes glitter the light of thousand stars. He kisses Barba when it’s all purple and plum, the material soft and silky underneath his fingers, the shorter man’s moans are sweet music to his ears. And when Barba wears polka dot, his eyes full of challenge, Amaro knows to take him apart hard and fast before putting him back again, all pliant and warm as Amaro trails kisses along his spine.

Somewhere, between sneaking kisses in darkened hallway and baby blue shirts, Amaro becomes nick and Barba becomes Rafael. The names become a mantra on their tongues, anchoring them amidst the storm.

Nick has never known a man can have so many suits and ties, or that there are so many different shades of purple and blue. Before Rafael, Nick thought walk-in closets were something that only exists in _Sex and the City_. He was wrong, of course (“Was you ever right, detective?”, Rafael would ask him, his eyes gleamed with mischief and the hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth), because Rafael does. Nick should have seen this coming – it’s Rafi he’s talking about, and the man has been anything but predictable.

(The first time they fuck at Rafael’s apartment, they did it in front of the giant mirror in the closet.)

If there is one thing Nick envies the most about Rafael is how confidence the man is in and out of his suits. People always thought his perfect tailor clothes and impeccable hair are a front – an armour to hide behind, to bury his past and the days he spent, fighting and bleeding. But Nick has eyes, and he has learned to read Rafael, so he knows better. The attorney looks at home in a three-piece suit as he does in softly-worn sweatpants, lounging on Nick’s tattered sofa eating greasy, takeaway pizza, while occasionally scoffs at the TV because _the law doesn’t work like that Nick, these people didn’t do their research at all!_

 -

Rafael takes Nick to meet Guido, the next time he wants to get new suits. They have just finished a rather gruelling case, and Liv has given the squad a few days off. So here he is, holding Rafael’s hand as they headed towards Little Italy. Nick tries to squint against November’s sunlight so he could remember how the breeze tousled Rafael’s hair as he sips his third coffee for the day. As if knowing what he is doing, Rafi gives him a smile, one that packs so much meaning – you’re cheesy but I love you anyway.

Nick doesn’t think he can be more in love.

But then they got to Guido, and the next thing Nick knows, the old man has given him a little binder of fabric and colours and Rafael is standing there in front of the mirror, telling him to choose. To say Nick was out of his elements is an understatement; he is so positively lost he could have found El Dorado by this point.

Through the reflection in the mirror, Nick could see the slight shake in Rafael’s hands and the worried dancing underneath his eyes, and he understands – Rafael wants to share this part of him with Nick, all of him. And Nick’s heart swells.

(Guido told him Rafael has always favoured baby blue and pastel shades of pink. Nick couldn’t agree more. He doesn’t tell Guido that’s his favourite colours too. They became his favourite when he met Rafael).

-

There is no better sight than seeing Rafael in a suit that Nick knows he chose for him, especially when the ADA is in court, his fury blazing, his eyes sharp and his arguments cutting, like a shark on the hunt. Liv is looking at him with a fond smile, and he couldn’t help but smiles back, and Rollins is muttering something about “dorks in love”. Nick thinks even if his memories have faded away, he wants to remember this moment – Rafael in his elements, shining brightly. Like a beacon calling him home.

But Nick likes it even more when Rafael is wearing his marks – purpled hickeys and kisses that he left. If he could paint, Nick would paint Rafael like that, standing against his window, the pale light streaming through the lace curtain, illuminating him. He has been to the Met and MoMA and all those galleries, but he doesn’t think there is any sight that can compare.

And then Rafael is putting on his Academy jersey, oft-worn and washed too many times, sitting comically large on him, falling down to his knees. Nick thinks he can get used to this.

 


End file.
